


Broken Glass: Part Fourteen – Light on the Sill

by motsureru



Series: Broken Glass [14]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Awkwardness, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Law Enforcement, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-04
Updated: 2007-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:30:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for all of season 1. This is a continuation after Season 1, Sylar/Mohinder-centric</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Glass: Part Fourteen – Light on the Sill

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [hugh](http://hugh.livejournal.com/) for beta work~ ****

**Teaser:** _It was an anxiousness that Sylar could hear, and Mohinder knew it. But he thought perhaps if he ignored it, pretended absolutely nothing could be wrong, that Sylar might let it pass as well._

 

.14 Light on the Sill

 

            Around five in the morning, the heaters of Mohinder’s apartment building gave a trembling shudder and awoke to chase away the crystals formed on the inside of frozen glass. Sylar heard it first, as with all things. The creak of old radiators and the crackle of dying ice drew him away from dreams and into the reality of the heart that beat beside him. 

            Though it had taken him hours, Mohinder had fallen asleep at Sylar’s side, and deeply. When Sylar woke first in those early hours, he found this to his advantage. He could lie back in Mohinder’s bed and listen to his breath, watch how his dark skin subtly caught the rising sun’s twilight. Mohinder looked so peaceful when he slept, so free of those overcomplicated expressions he wore in the daytime. Sylar wanted that too. He wanted to own it. To understand it. To know how to create such a look on the quiet man, to transition him from his hatred to his ease, one form to another. If he could, then Sylar might finally know how Mohinder worked.

            While the time would still permit him, Sylar scooted closer to the sleeping figure, the man huddled on his side with his back to Sylar, just as he’d lain the night before. With ever-careful movements, Sylar brought an arm up, sliding it slowly over and around Mohinder’s hip. Their bodies were only an inch apart beneath the covers, emanating heat that now came easily. The man rested his head closer, until his nose was tickled by Mohinder’s tempting curls and his fragrance taunted senses. Sylar’s hand crept against the thin fabric of Mohinder’s pajama pants until it rest against his angular hip. Sylar reveled in how close he could get, what he could take without Mohinder’s resistance. But it was the fantasy of resistance that made Sylar inhale deeply and close his eyes. It was the fantasy of that unpredictable moment that drove him inexorably to his decision. Today would be the day.

 

            A beam of sunlight was striking Mohinder’s eye uncomfortably and he winced away with a large, ungainly yawn. He felt so blissfully warm that at first he hardly recalled the bitter cold of the night before; the sun on his face was pleasantly baking away and another heat in his bed was trapped beneath the blankets. Mohinder felt at peace with the warm body close to his own before he realized just what it was. Sylar’s forehead was pressed gently between Mohinder’s shoulder blades and his fingertips were grazing a bare crack of skin at Mohinder’s lower back, where his pants and his sweater parted in the slightest way. Sylar was still ensnared in the trap that was sleep, apparently, and for a second it seemed utterly natural to Mohinder to find comfort in that touch, completely normal for a smile to ghost the corners of his mouth.

            That second did not last long.

            Mohinder’s breath caught and he did everything in his power not to flinch away hard enough to wake the man. His thoughts immediately ran wild: Had Sylar embraced him on purpose? Tried to take advantage of him? Rolled over innocently in the night? Mohinder pulled back the covers and instantly fled the scene as silently as he could, putting the bathroom door between himself and Sylar’s sleeping form. Mohinder pressed his back against the wood, damning the morning stiffness to more than just his joints. A feeling of shame washed over him, a feeling of utter alarm. Sylar sneaking into his bed was one thing, but touching him was quite another. Was Mohinder too comfortable like this? Too ready to wipe the slate clean? For all the risks he’d taken, did he not have enough second thoughts? Mohinder suddenly felt wracked with fear; fear of change, fear of consequences, but most of all, fear of desire. Did he really want something from this man? Mohinder found that of all people, he was terrified of himself. 

            _No._ He wouldn’t lose himself in this. He wouldn’t make any more sacrifices, he wouldn’t give up his hatred, he wouldn’t be arrested, he wouldn’t throw himself in front of a train for Sylar if he could help it. _No._ He wanted to whisper the word to himself to ensure he would resist the urge to believe _too_ much in Sylar. Mohinder closed his eyes, willing away his panic and indecision. Though he told himself his resolve was firm, because of his body it felt as though it rest only on sand.

            The sound of the mattress creaking and Sylar yawning hugely brought Mohinder out of his thoughts. He heard the rustle of clothing- probably Sylar changing out of his sweater into something cooler now that their radiator was thankfully rumbling.

            “Alright, heat!” Mohinder heard the sleepy but ecstatic statement. “I’ll go start breakfast,” –was the next half-conscious comment to the empty room. Mohinder heard Sylar’s feet pad out into the living room and he gave a small sigh of relief. He could pretend last night never happened. 

            Couldn’t he?

 

 

            “It’s like the whole damned department is pretending this never happened!” Preston said in frustration over his third cup of coffee. His eyes were slightly bloodshot and his usually crisp white shirt was wrinkled and limp. 

            This was the state the detective was found in when Murphy pushed open the doors to the office section in the precinct building. Murphy had, of course, gotten enough sleep and not rushed to the office early that morning. He knew that pouring over a list of officers who weren’t even all at the station wouldn’t amount to much. Murphy rest a hand on Preston’s shoulder before he leaned over the piece of paper grasped in the older man’s hands. “C’mon, Pres. We’ve questioned nearly everyone, haven’t we? No one remembers taking that call. Maybe they weren’t even Queens guys- maybe someone else got caught on that call, eh?”

            But Preston had been agonizing over that list of the officers in their district too long to give up, struggling to find the pair that had been called out to Gabriel Gray’s Trenton Place address. It seemed to be a quest to no avail. His list of crossed-off names was far more extensive than the ones still left. “It’s gotta be here, Chuck. It’s gotta be. _Someone_ took that call. I don’t care if I have to start wading through those jerks in the Brooklyn offices to get answers, I’m gonna find out who.”

            Murphy gave a sigh of defeat and dragged over a chair to the side of the desk. “Well… how many at this office do we have left, Pres?” Murphy picked up the half-empty cup of coffee at his partner’s side and wrinkled his nose at how cold it was to the touch. He pushed it away with a distasteful wrinkle of his nose. 

            “Ten, maybe fifteen-“ Preston stopped talking and looked sharply over at Murphy. 

            “…Wh-what?” he cleared his throat.

            “Don’t touch another man’s coffee.” Preston reached over and slid the cup to the opposite corner of his desk.

            “…Right.” Murphy scratched the back of his head and leaned over a little to peek at the names there. “…Hey, you haven’t asked Dave yet. Hasn’t he been on a vacation? He’s coming back next week. He sometimes does foot patrol at night.”

            Preston stared hard at the list, then his eyes widened as if it had all clicked at once. “Jesus Christ, you’re right. I overlooked him because he’s usually on traffic duty!” Grabbing the phone so fast it nearly fell off the back of the desk, Preston punched in the man’s cellular, foot tapping in anticipation.

            “That’s what you get for doing your job too well. Always busy, never talk to us grunts. Even an old dog like you could learn something, Pres.” Murphy chuckled, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. 

            “Shut up. –Hey! Dave.”

            A muffled grunt on the other end. “Preston? Do you know what time it is? I’m on vacation, man.”

            “–Yeah, yeah I know you’re not on call, I know it’s early. Listen, I have a question, and it has to do with this murder case I’m working on the south side.”

            A resounding sigh. “The Gray case? Shoot.”

            “I need to know if you got a call in some time back, up to a few weeks ago. Trenton Place apartment, some guy and a girl- the super didn’t remember them well, just talking to the cops.”

            “What? That? I never filed that, it was nothing.”

            The detective’s heart leapt in his chest and he clapped Murphy roughly on the back. “You got that one? Can you tell me anything about the two who dragged you out there? About what happened?”

            There was a tired grumble on the other end, and the man could be heard switching ears. “Yeah, yeah. Couple of kids said some guy who killed this guy’s father or something lived in the apartment over there. Was a hell of a rainy night, got me and Johnson all worked up for nothing- empty apartment. Whoever was there was long gone. They said they were looking fer a… a…S… something. Kai? Sai? I don’t remember the name. Some cute little skinny girl and an Indian guy with curly hair. Ma… Sur… Sir… Sorry, I don’t remember their names. After we didn’t find anything the Indian one said he didn’t want to file a report or anything. Sounded like he was hopped up on speed or something with how fast he was talking, but he got real indignant when we asked. We figured the two were just out to get a friend on a joke or take some cops on a wild goose chase after hours.”

            “Mohinder? Was the man’s name Mohinder Suresh?” Preston asked anxiously, gripping the desk as a small smile began to creep across his face.

            “Sounds right I guess, Preston. Why don’t you just bring the guy in if you’ve got a suspect?” the man yawned.

            Preston grinned to himself. “Just might do that, Dave. You’re a lifesaver. I’ll give you a buzz if I need anything else. Go back to bed.” Preston slammed the phone down just as he stood up and he grabbed his coat off the back of his chair. With a whirl of the fabric over his shoulders, Preston kicked the leg of Murphy’s chair. “C’mon, we’re gonna go bring this sorry guy in, Chuck. Time for business.”

 

 

            It was an anxiousness that Sylar could hear and Mohinder knew it. But he thought perhaps if he ignored it, pretended absolutely nothing could be wrong, that Sylar might let it pass as well. So breakfast had come and gone, each sitting there in their pajamas pants and (thankfully) t-shirts, without saying a single word besides Sylar’s ‘pass the salt?’ or ‘pass the OJ?’ that kept forcing Mohinder to acknowledge him. 

            When they were done, Mohinder collected the dishes and went to wash them, feeling Sylar’s eyes on his back as he moved. Being suspicious and unable to help it or hide it only made Mohinder angry at himself, and with each passing moment of insecurity he became more and more upset at his own weakness. It was a complete reversal from last night when he’d returned, and he knew it. Sylar’s escapade into his bed- rather, his seemingly innocent touch in the morning after- had turned Mohinder’s head completely upside down. Though he knew it should mean nothing, the fact that he thought it might mean _something_ perpetually nagged at him. 

            Mohinder thought himself a fool, thought himself weak, and it was even more regrettable to him that he have those thoughts about himself at all when he knew he was a stronger person than that. 

            “Mohinder?”

            He had been self-loathing for so long this morning that now he was bitter towards himself about it, and that made for an inescapable jumble of idiotic reprimands running through his brain. Well, he thought, at least Sylar didn’t have the power to read minds.

            “Mohinder, are you listening?”

            Mohinder’s eyes shot upward from the dish in his grasp to the man standing at his side with slightly raised eyebrows and a towel in hand.

            “I said I’d help you dry them. …The dishes.” Sylar motioned to the plate that had sat ignored under running water for about twenty full seconds.

            Mohinder’s face colored and he went back to scrubbing that dish. “I don’t need your help. Why don’t you go read or something.” 

            Sylar threw the towel down on the counter with a frustrated sigh. “Mohinder what is the deal with you? You’ve been ignoring me all morning! You’ve said maybe- maybe two words to me and you won’t even look at my face. Have I done something?” Sylar demanded, voice raising a little when he spoke.

            Mohinder turned off the water with an exaggerated twist of the knob and grabbed the towel, wiping his hands. “No.”  
            “Are you lying to me? I think there’s some kind of problem and you’re not telling me what I did wrong here.” –the note was accusatory. 

            “No!” Mohinder said in frustration, turning around to grab the pitcher of orange juice and shove it in the fridge. “I’m fine!”

            “Is this about what I said last night?”

            “No!”

            “Is this about me sleeping in your bed?”

            “Yes! –No!” Mohinder stumbled over his words and spun around to hurry past Sylar, to eliminate this situation. But suddenly there was a sharp grip on his arm; Mohinder found himself pushed right back and felt as he hit the counter hard, heels colliding with the lower cabinets. He gasped.

            Sylar held him tightly and stood close, at his full height, gazing down the inches of difference between them with his dark eyes. “You can’t walk away from me,” he spoke low, a touch of insult in his voice. Sylar’s strong hands had his other arm too, and though Mohinder gave a wrench of his limbs and a slight struggle, it got him nowhere.

            “Let me go, Sylar!” Mohinder threatened with an uneasy glare.

            “I know what this about,” Sylar stated clearly, an indiscernible look crossing his face.

            “You don’t know anyth-” –but Mohinder was cut off by lips colliding with his, one hand releasing his arm to grasp his face and hold it firmly. Those lips were as smooth as the first time, as powerful as Mohinder had imagined them, but still Mohinder tore his own away with a panicked pant for air.

            “I don’t want you!” he hissed denial angrily, fingers tangling into the fabric of Sylar’s shirt, pushing and pulling for release.

            Strong fingertips delved into black curls and Sylar’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a liar,” he said breathlessly, forcing their lips together again. This time Mohinder’s resistance slowed and he made a noise in his throat as the heat of his cheeks seemed to steal slowly down his body. His heart pounded unevenly in his chest, and it was when Sylar’s tongue probed past his lips that Mohinder understood just how feeble his resolve against Sylar had been.

            Mohinder hated him for knowing the truth, worse yet for forcing him to surrender to it. His fingers gripped the man’s shirt tightly, twisting the fabric in one last battle. 

            “Stop resisting, Mohinder,” –came Sylar’s chastisement against his lips, breath a shower of heat. “I want to be human. Let me be human,” he whispered, insistent, but somehow pleading. “If I have to be human, so do you. So just…” Sylar pressed his lips tenderly this time against Mohinder’s, ghosting them softly. “ _Just let go…_ ”

            The final string was taut and dwindling, spinning against the tension as the world spun for Mohinder.

            It snapped.

            Mohinder’s other hand drew up and grasped the back of Sylar’s neck roughly, and when their lips came together again it was far from tender, nothing but the needy crashing of flesh and tongues. It was insanity to think he needed Sylar this badly, but Mohinder’s every nerve stood on its peak and every touch of Sylar’s hand in his hair or down his back made him as hard as he’d been the night before in the café. Mohinder kissed Sylar greedily, angrily, despising and treasuring the way he was made to melt to the touch.

            And Sylar was far from denying himself touch.

            Sylar’s hand slid down Mohinder’s back to his hip and with a slight jerk of his telekinesis he jumped for Mohinder the inches it took to rest him upon the seat of the counter. Mohinder was gasping into Sylar’s mouth from the startling movement, but it was more startling to him when Sylar spread his knees and moved between them. There was a feeling of exposure then, but it was soon lost when Sylar pulled Mohinder’s body forward once more, hand cradling the small of his back, until the heat between each of their legs met amidst fabric and both knew just how fully they submitted to this desire.

            It was when Mohinder felt Sylar’s erection pressing against his own through their thin cotton pants that he finally let out an insuppressible moan, having long forgotten what it was to be wanted and to want. Right, wrong… they no longer had a place here.

            While Sylar’s lips dipped down to the darker man’s chin and throat, stubble causing Mohinder to shiver, his hands made the next move to lift his shirt. Every noise, every breath, every groan parts of Mohinder’s body made were like nectar to Sylar’s ears. All he saw, all he heard, all he felt was the way Mohinder at last gave in and admitted that he needed Sylar; that Sylar gave him something he couldn’t resist even at the most basic level. 

            It was victory.

            As Sylar peeled away Mohinder’s shirt and moved in to capture his lips again-

            There was the thunderous clamor of a fist against the door.

            Both men jumped, caught in the act a second time, but now Sylar’s whip of his head in that direction bore a fire in his eyes that men and women alike had seen before- the last thing they ever saw. If one could carry Death in a gaze, it was surely this man’s to hold.

            “Mohinder Suresh! Mohinder Suresh, this is the police! We need to have a word with you!” came the detective’s familiar voice through the door.

            Sylar’s glare sharpened and the deeply etched scowl on his face as he made a movement away caused Mohinder to grab the man by the chin and turn his face back. “ _Stop!_ ” he whispered quickly, breathless and shaking. “ _Don’t do it. I can handle it, I-_ ”

            Sylar stared at Mohinder, at his trembling, fearful, aroused gaze. That look softened just barely. “ _But Mohinder…_ ”

            Mohinder swallowed and glanced nervously towards the door, wincing as those fists beat again. “ _They can’t arrest me if I haven’t done anything- Stay here. **Please** stay here. Promise me you’ll-_”

            Sylar’s jaw clenched and he pulled back to let go of the man, tossing Mohinder’s shirt back into his lap. His shoulders hung in irritated disappointment as he stepped away to let Mohinder down.

            “Just a moment!” Mohinder called to the door, pulling that shirt on clumsily and inside-out. Sylar was walking back towards the bedroom and Mohinder jogged past him to grab a pair of pants that would better conceal what he was truly guilty of. Mohinder fumbled, hopping on one foot for a moment as he tugged the pants over his pajama bottoms. 

            The police banged roughly once more. “Mr. Suresh!”

            Sylar looked over his shoulder as he entered the bedroom, giving a brief glance to the window down the hall. Mohinder hastily zipped his jeans and looked up at him, still flushed, his heart beating out of control. “ _S-Sylar, I…_ ”

           Sylar reached down and grasped Mohinder’s chin, leaning in to kiss him hard and deep. Even as Mohinder stumbled, Sylar held him firmly, tilting his head into the capture of those lips as he drew the man to him. Sylar let his mouth linger until another angry thump came from the door; it was then that he finally pulled back. “ _I’ll be waiting,_ ” Sylar breathed out in a subdued voice. He turned and hurried down the hall, the window opening on its own before he reached it to climb out.

            Mohinder, dumbfounded, nearly fell forward with Sylar’s hold gone. He licked his lips slowly and found that Sylar’s taste remained there.


End file.
